Inblognito

And One More Thing...

Inblognito is now the number three result on Google for people searching for the phrase "flappy pussy", and number ten for the word "cocksuckers".

Great. Cherry on the cake of my day...

A Very Personal Fuck You

I'm back, and I'm fucking pissed. Shall I enumerate? I shall. To wit:

1) Don't tell me who I have to be nice to, bitch. Yeah, we've been friends forever, and I love you beyond reasoning, but if you don't quit trying to talk me into liking people I can't stand, I'm going to make like your recent post and cut your fucking tow-line. You know who you are. 'Nuff said.

2) Don't ever, ever get snippy with me because you're pissed at someone else. I am my own woman, and not, contrary to popular belief, joined at the fucking hip with my girlfriends. Don't assume I know what's going on when I don't, and don't assume that just because one of them is pissed at you that I must be, too. We're out of grade-school now; that shit won't fly, that dog won't hunt. You hurt my feelings - again - and I'm fucking tired of it.

3) Quit blaming your problems on the rest of the world. You want to say anything you please, and then stalk off like a pussy when someone has the gall to call your sorry ass on it? Please. Quit using people's heads for pincushions every time something doesn't go your way, and maybe your transparent bullshit won't fly back up in your face next time. Goddam! People are idiots, and it never fails that the one guy out there proclaiming to be the biggest bad-ass will be the biggest bully and coward of them all. And sometimes, a fucking liar to boot!

4) If you're going to have a pity-party, do it on your own fucking time, or get a blog, so that you can vent where I don't have to listen, or at least where there's a BACK button I can make use of.

For all three of you who may be interested, each and every one of those statements goes out to a different person. Two of 'em read this site, two of 'em don't; unless you have been on the phone with me, or on the receiving end of my face-to-face bitch-cunt wrath in the last twenty-four hours, I can assure you that none of the above apply to you. So don't freak out or anything.

Finally, to the wienerdog, just in case: I tried to e-mail you several times, as you asked, but the shit keeps bouncing. Either you've blocked me as a sender, or your yahoo box is so full of shit that it can't take any more. You know where I live, you know my phone number, and you know my e-mail addresses. If you want to talk to me, I'm right here. If not, that's fine, too. Really.

I promise.

Sick

Sick as shit. Caught something in the woods last weekend, or from one of those little bitchez in green. The whole camping thing was awful - I forgot how much I hated a) nature, and b) spending time with preadolescent girls to whom I did not give birth, and now I feel like I'm dying as a result of it. Mister MacFarland assures me that I will, despite his fervent hopes, live - I've called him an unsympathetic fuck and tossed him out to sleep on the sofa. Asshole.

I will be back when I feel better, and that's assuming that I'll live through this virus and retain all my faculties. In the meantime, go read my blogroll. None of 'em suck, and I guarantee you that none of 'em will leave you with that bitter Queenie aftertaste.

Checking Out

It's been a really rough week around here. Mac and I are at each other's throats, the kids are cranky, and that damned dog barks every time he hears a car door slam. Is it the moon? Is it something in the water? I don't know, but I'm sure hoping that this cloud - whatever it is - passes the hell on over, and fast.

I'm taking my daughter's Girl Scout troop camping this weekend, so I won't be around for a few days. I'd rather be at the "Georgia Writer's Workshop", but previously scheduled events have conspired to keep me away. Sigh. It's for the best, I guess. I'd just get drunk and dance on tables, anyway, and probably end up getting shot by a jealous wife or something.

I should be back Sunday, provided the little pack of green-clad heathen bitches-in-training don't throw me in the fucking Coosa River. Given my disposition, this is always a possibility.

Snit

I've been in a snit all day. I don't have any idea what crawled up my ass and died, but I'm grouchy, frustrated, irritible, and have a nasty attitude. Velociman says I need a hinky tight, but neither a googling nor a cruise through Merriam Webster brought me any closer to figuring out what the hell it is he thinks I need.

If you find a hinky tight - or if you are a hinky tight, since I don't know if the noun is proper or not - let me know, won't you?

Hubba Hubba

Since we're doing pictures, and revealing all kinds of down-and-dirties...

Want to know how to get in my pants, without even trying very hard?

Be this guy. GOT-DAMN...

Clive Owen, ladies and gentlemen, who just moved onto my list*, with four other guys who vaguely resemble him. I understand he's also on the short list to be the new James Bond, once Pierce Brosnan retires from the role. I'll keep my fingers crossed, and my legs, since I'm leaving wet spots on the uphoulstery just looking at him. I'd drink his fucking bathwater. Slurp.

Somebody wanted to know about my porn preferences? You're looking at it.

*You know, the list? The rich and famous people that you'll never, ever even be in the same room with, so it's okay for you to tell your husband that you're going to shag 'em rotten if you ever get the chance? That list.

UPDATE: LauraN, you are a gem, an angel. NO, I had never seen the BMW films. Yes, I live in a cave. I watched them all this afternoon, and consequently almost burned the house down through, erm, appliance overuse. Thank god those things have overheat shutdown controls. I've been trying to send you an e-mail to say thanks for the tip, but it keeps bouncing. So - if you come back, and I hope you do - thanks. I owe you one.

Revelation...

Just in case anyone is interested in what I look like...

This is about as close as it gets:

It's pretty accurate, actually. Saw the link to the South Park generator at A Small Victory.

I know, I know. I look awfully excited about that cocktail.

I said it was pretty accurate...

In Which I Get Nosy

Imagine it - cinderblock room, painted institutional green. Fluorescent light-fixture on the ceiling, one long bulb dying a slow death, buzzing and flickering. A wooden table. A couple of chairs. A styrofoam cup, the bottom covered with a thin film of acidic, police-station coffee. The interrogator - me. The subject? Samira from Round the Fire. My goal? Find out how she got so damn interesting. Someone that independently-minded has to have dirty laundry somewhere.

No, really - I interviewed Samira as part of this dealie where a blogger agrees to be interviewed, and then passes the meme on by agreeing to interview the first five people who ask for it in the comments. Samira was the only one brave enough to risk The Wrath of Khan Queenie, since I'd promised to go out for blood. I perused her archives, looking for places to go "Aha! Gotcha!"...but I wound up being far more interested in her thought-processes than in digging out her dirty secrets.

I mean, come on, I'm not made of wood, here. Samira is twenty-two. She's a virgin. She's never smoked. She's a gun-totin' lesbian pagan soy-allergic libertarian historical-reenacter who trained as a forensic criminologist in college but now works as a personal chef. If all that don't pique your interest, I can't help you.

Samira has facets upon facets upon facets. Read the interview here - but don't stop there. Delve deeper. This is one interesting individual - I feel certain you'll dig her, too.

Command Performance

Miss Flynny from Divine InnerBitchin' had the idea; it might be cool to see a variety of bloggers take on the same subject all at once, a sort of impromptu text-based debate on a specified topic - she calls it Command Post. The idea is that one blogger presents a topic on Saturday, and throughout the week any takers just hop right in and blog on that topic. The following week, the topic's host will pick his or her favorite post, and pass the baton on to the blogger who wrote it.

This week, Miss Flynny has appointed me to ask you good folks a question to be answered on your own site, being the wonderfully intrepid soul that she is. I enjoyed writing my response to last week's query, so I'll gladly take up the mantle. Any and all are encouraged to participate. The more the fucking merrier, I always say!

Remember, though, that Queenie is on the down-low; I'm way, way too neurotic to handle much linkage. Don't link back to me, link back to this post, at Flynny's. Help a woman keep her cyber-wig on, darlin'. You know how I get when my slip is showing.

If you'd care to, though, do leave a link to your command post here, in the comments. I will post every one in the updates with all alacrity, so that any of my dear readers who care to may join the fun. I'll post my thoughts on the subject - some of which might surprise you - sometime later in the week.

Here we go - and you know this is just so predictable and typical:

The War on Drugs. I'd like to hear your take on it - with regard to public policy, foreign policy, legalization, tightening of controls, the prison system - anything goes, any slice of the pie you care to take. Of course...if you wanted to share any hazy and mostly-embarrassing memories with us - Queenie style - please, please do. It lessens my shame over my own lurid youth.

That's all from me, for the moment. Have at it!

UPDATE: Dear Circa Bellum is the first to take the plunge - you can read his adventures here. That was a close shave! Reminds me of that time on the way to Charlotte to catch the Dead at the new Coliseum...

Also, be sure and check the comments, where my friend Key left her opinion.

Aha! My beloved Velocipater joins the fray. Listen to the man! He knows whereof he speaks!

Ooh - a long and thoughtful post from the Polyanna of the Blogosphere (and a damned good friend), the one and only Margi Lowry. Go see.

At last! Our gracious meme-progenitor checks in - Miss Flynny!

Finally, my own views are in the extended entry. You've still got until Saturday night to participate, and on Sunday I'll be announcing the next host. Thanks to everyone who took the time to write on the subject!

4/14/05

I've procrastinated on posting my take because I know that so many people, like Miss Flynny, have such strong opinions on the positive effect of the war on drugs, and have such horrible life-experiences to back them up. While I am NOT in favor of across-the-board drug legalization, and while I do think that, viewed as a whole, some drug use has a deleterious effect on families and, by extension, society as a whole, I have several problems with the way in which the current "war on drugs" is being waged. I think the gubmint has gone about it in entirely the wrong way, and, as such, the war on drugs is a miserable failure.

Look - have you seen stats on drug-related crime in the seventies, before the drug war got down to brass tacks, before the Reagan years? From the little bit of research I've done on the subject, it looks like said crimes were committed on an exponentially smaller scale than they were in the eighties, or the nineties, or in the new century. Also, these statistics seem to point to a localization of drug crime, isolating the problem to major cities. Today drug-related crime is everywhere, even here in bucolic Sylacauga, and it doesn't show any sign of slacking off.

Why is it everywhere, now? Because it fucking pays, that's why.

What the drug war has done is to drive the value of illegal substances through the roof - an ounce of gold sells for a fraction of the cost of an ounce of cocaine. While the war on drugs has made these substances more dangerous to deal in, it has also made the business more profitable by orders of magnitude. The market hasn't slowed; people have been getting high on one substance or another since the beginning of recorded history, and the laws of supply and demand apply in this case just as much as they would if we were talking about lumber or barrels of oil.

Any time people are desperate, unable to feed their families, locked into an unending cycle of economic misery, they are going to turn to whatever is available to them to make a profit, to help them out of their straitened circumstances. Wait a few generations, watch children grow up in those same circumstances, in those neighborhoods where the dealer man is the biggest, baddest motherfucker on the block, and you're going to have an army of young ones who want to be just like him. That's what we're dealing with today. Prison is no longer even a deterrent, because - over the years - going to prison became a mark of cool, a major signifier of street cred. Kids see the profitability of selling drugs, and they want in, no matter the cost. What do they care if selling or doing drugs "ruins their life"? They don't even have any hope for a "normal" life. Getting high is the fucking bright spot in an otherwise barren existence. Selling drugs is the only way they can see to get any power or respect at all.

I don't have the answers. I don't know how to stop the cycle, and I'm not even sure that it can be stopped, at this point in its progression. I am in favor of the decriminalization of marijuana, because I truly believe that it is far less dangerous than alcohol, or even tobacco, and also because our prisons are full of non-violent weed offenders - people that would otherwise be paying taxes like the rest of us - and I think it is ridiculous to incarcerate someone for such a trifle. Also, it's becoming more and more expensive to keep all of these people in jail. Would I legalize heroin, though? Hell, no. Crack cocaine? No way.

Again, I don't know the solution...but if I were in charge for a day, I'd start by initiating a program that subsidized the educations of young inner-city men, in exchange for a mandated period of service in the school system, as teachers. Give these inner-city kids some hope, give them some role models that they can look up to, and put some big, large menz in the classroom to keep discipline so that a positive learning environment can be fostered. I'd also like to see marijuana sold under the government aegis, and I'd like to see 'em tax the fuck out of it, redirecting the profits into rehab, education, and job training for more serious abusers.

Finally, I'd like to see us stop using the term "War on Drugs". It isn't a war on drugs, it's a war on drug-users, and the government has no business waging a war on its own people. You want to really fight a drug war? Stop opium production in Afghanistan and Pakistan. Put an end to coca-bush production in South America. Rechannel the efforts of the DEA into border control. Fight it where you can win it - because I doubt very seriously that people are ever going to stop wanting to get high on something. History tells us that it ain't going to happen. I'd just like us to make sure that that something is as mild as possible, that the individual can't make a profit selling it, and that the lion's share of the proceeds goes towards removing the issues that drive people into destructive addiction in the first place.

Sleepless in Sylacauga

I am home, wide awake, sober, and bored to tears. I'd shoot my dog for a "hand-rolled cigarette".

I'm so bored I'm actually reduced to baiting Acidman's trolls. And you know that's a damn shame...middle of the night, fine, honest woman...with nothing better to do than argue with a pompous, gasbaggy drunk.

A damn shame. And a total yawner. Somebody - please entertain me! Stop me before I bait again!

Particle Woman

Sometime earlier this week, when I wasn't looking, the Yellow Peril invaded my neck of the woods. Anyone in this area of the country will know immediately that I am not referring to a nebulous sense of geopolitical menace emanating from across the Pacific - I'm talking about pollen, people. Unless you live in a crazy-high pollen area like me, where "extreme" ranges from other states don't even begin to cut your "normal", you may not know just how Perilous all that Yellow can be. Queenie is here to testify - it is nasty.

It's everywhere, literally laying on the ground in drifts like you'd see from a light snowfall. Yellow streaks festoon the street outside my house; the fine, dusty mess filters in our open windows and changes the color of the dark wood furniture it lands on, leaving sooty yellow messes on the windowsills. I dust it to no avail; I'm only shifting its position over and over again, making me feel like a voluntary Sisyphus, which is to say, stupid. My red car is orange at the moment, bright as a Clementine, my paint job overlaid by a thin film of vivid yellow pollen that acts on it like a gel placed over a stagelight, effectively changing its hue. It's a hideous color on a vehicle, to boot.

This week is also Spring Break, so the barbarians are quite literally at the gate. Since I am not working, I am home with the little heathens, and all of us are stuffy-nosed and gacking up balls of yellow gooz from our lungs. We've been out and about all week - the middle child needing ferried to various activities, the youngest and I hanging out at the park and the duck pond and other outdoor-type activities. We've taken the day off, though, today - bitchy Mommy, enforcing a Day of Rest - and we've sealed the house up once again, praying for some rain outside to wash away some of the particulates currently dancing a hornpipe on our membranes. The Weather Channel is predicting thunderstorms in a matter of hours, and the sky outside looks obligingly ominous. I love The Weather Channel - a middle-aged woman's Rock Gods - I'm hanging on their prophecy.

Tonight, once my familial duties are satisfied, I have a hot date with a pack of Benadryl. I've just sneezed polleny snot all over my typing fingers, biting the shit out of my tongue in the process. Crap.

Bleeding to stanch. AFK.

Uh-Oh...

I, um, went over my cellular minutes.

I mean, way, way, waaaay over.

This is the first full-month cell bill we've had to pay since I got on the family phone plan instead of the "paid for by your employer" plan. Mister MacFarland, our eldest boy and I all share a pool of minutes. The two of them put together used, like, forty minutes total.

I blabbed my self-indulgent and spoiled head off all throughout the other, oh, thousand minutes or so. Plus some. I am in so much trouble.

I think I'm going to pack and go to her house for a few days. Hiding out, you know. When Mac finds me, he just might have an ass-whuppin' with him. Or the thirty-ought-six...gaah!

Make sure I get a decent, Christian burial, won't you? My epitaph?

"Talked Herself To Death."

Cocksuckers!

If you are not watching Deadwood, you're seriously missing out. I mean, seriously.

Loss

I went to see my parents around lunchtime today. Mom is on a big health kick. It's kind of a joke, since my mother, at sixty-four, is a tiny little woman with very little body fat. But, don't tell her she looks good already; she's on a Journey of Self-Improvement. She's been working out at a "ladies only" gym with her neighborhood cronies, counting "points" for Weight Watchers, and always wears a pedometer, counting the calories she burns while she's doing laundry or going to have a pee or whatever. She also bought one of these hyper-accurate ounce-counter scales - honestly, the thing looks like something out of a sci-fi flick - and was pleased to tell me that she'd lost six pounds.

Of course, mom being mom, nothing would do but that I slip off my shoes and hop on the scale. Oh, she pretends like she wants to show me how great her new scale is - and I protest by saying I won't be able to tell, anyway, because I don't even know how much I weigh (a lie) - but both of us know that she's really just dying to know exactly how much I weigh.

Sigh. It's a thing. Don't ask.

Finally, I acquiesce, as I almost always do - she wants it so badly and it costs me so little to let her triumph in the fact that she still weighs less than me (which has always been a specious comparison, since she is all of five feet tall and has bones like twigs, while I'm half a foot taller and have regular-sized bones). But hey, let her have happiness where she finds it. She's my mom.

So, I hop up on the damned thing. For a split second, I thought I'd broken mom's new toy, because the scale suddenly stopped, a good ways below where it normally does. I act all cool about it - that's part of it, never evincing surprise or disappointment over stuff like this in front of mom because then she wants to "talk" and "cry it out" and "advise" me on How to be Healthy, ugh - but damn. Lo and behold!

I've lost a few ounces shy of twenty pounds since I got shitcanned from my job. That was the last time I weighed, at the doctor's office, two days before the call came for us to clean out our desks.

It's been, what? Two months? Ten pounds a month?

I couldn't believe it. I came home and weighed on my own, not-so-technologically-advanced scale - and whaddaya know? Same thing there. I hadn't noticed that my jeans were getting baggy, and my black suit - which I haven't worn since I lost my job (I interview in navy blue) - is hanging off my frame.

Shit. I need a job and all, but...twenty pounds? If this is all it takes for me to lose weight, I should get fired more often. That's a perker-upper.

Constant, nagging financial uncertainty does have its privileges!

Living in Sin

To move right in and make a lifestyle of your dirty weekending? Miss Flynny wants to know. As the first topic in her portable round-table style quest for the truth, she asks all bloggers to discuss our thoughts on living together before marriage.

I was brought up in the rural south, with the clear understanding that if I ever moved in with a man before I married him, I would be forced to commit ritual suicide to cleanse my family of the shame. Like seppuku, but with Methodists. In that light, you must see that my answer to this question will be somewhat tinged with the overtones of a belief system that largely expired in the sixties, but that I am aware of this bias and therefore I'd never seek to judge others on my fucked-up rubric.

It depends on who it is you're trying to please, I guess - the "Good of Society" or yourself. Fundamentally, waiting until marriage to live together supports the idea of committed families; the understanding being that once a legal and spiritual bond is in place, any children with which the couple might be blessed have a better chance at a more stable home, therefore assuring that Society is provided with Good Citizens to shepherd It along in a positive direction, generation after generation. That being said, as a modern woman I totally understand and embrace the idea that two people have a better chance of making a marriage viable - of personal happiness - if they know what the hell they're getting into when they walk down the aisle. In 2005, it's six in one, half dozen in the other, because if a couple doesn't feel the personal happiness, it is likely - even probable - that they will divorce, regardless of children...but it hasn't always been this way, and thus the prohibition on premarital cohabitation.

I guess it was different, really, when marriage as a concept was still widely considered as binding for life, when divorce and desertion were rare simply by force of societal disapproval. In days of yore, when two people married, that concept of personal happiness that we modern Americans have was somewhat different, I think; divorce was rarely an option, so you married in good faith and hoped for the best. A divorced woman was looked down upon, divorce courts were not so sympathetic to "taking that bastard to the cleaners" - women put up with more to stay married. Men were raised to believe that they owed certain things to their wives and mothers of their children, regardless of whatever women they might cavort with on the side - a man who treated his family like shit was looked down upon, too, as a right bastard. People had incentives to stay married that just don't exist now. I'm not saying this was a good thing or a bad thing, it's just the way it was.

Since the sexual revolution, since the desire for personal happiness has subsumed, largely, the desire for marriage as a truly binding contract (i.e., feeling personal unhappiness is, in the mainstream, a good enough reason to divorce) people shop around. Call it sexual E-bay or serial monogamy, now that the walls around premarital sex and the negative connotations associated with divorce have tumbled away, people want a look at the goods before they buy, and everything comes with a return receipt, just in case.

The benefits of living together before marriage are many - you get to know your partner, how they live, whether you can stand them in the mornings or when they're drunk or on their high-horse. You start to see if there are little things about your partner that drive you crazy, that you just can't live with. You're forced to see the person more than the sex object, or the angel of love to worship - you see their hairs in the bathtub, smell their body-smells, see if they pick their nose or bite their toenails. Also, pre-marital personality charades are much harder to pull off on a live-in basis. You know what I'm talking about - the psycho bitch who finds out what your ideal woman is and pretends to be it - until she's got you and can turn on you like a rabid dog. The asshole abusive stalker husband who is a perfect prince - until the wedding night. Shit like that doesn't happen as often when two people live together before jumping into the contractual aspects of a permanent relationship.

However, it is also my experience that a great number of people, especially women, enter into live-in relationships and are eventually badly hurt when the relationship doesn't lead to marriage. Although I believe that this kind of thing usually happens to women when they are deliberately blind to the fact that they are acting as a sort of fucking-roommate to someone who will never marry them, the fact is that there are users of both sexes out there who will use "moving in" as more of an economic and domestic cushion than a prelude to something more formally committed. People fall in love and see with rose-colored glasses - moving in together requires a pragmatism that some folks will never possess, thus hearts are broken.

One stipulation: I personally believe that if you are going to have kids, you should marry, or, if that's not an option for some reason, take the trouble to sit down with a lawyer and hammer out a legal arrangement that provides for their care in the event you break up with your partner. You may think it will never happen, and it may not...but again, let's be pragmatic. It's the least that any parent can do for their child, so that your precious ones are cared for in the event that something happens to your live-in, or you, yourself.

Just a few posts ago, I mentioned that Mister MacFarland and I leapt into marriage, by today's standards - we dated for a year, engaged for six months of the twelve. Before we married I had never consented to live with a man, simply out of respect for my parents - plus, I never had a relationship with a man that went on longer than a few months that was serious enough to move in, but not serious enough to marry. Despite what you read here about my sordid past, I was a church-wedding kind of girl. Even so, once Mister MacFarland and I were engaged, we found out that we could break his lease a month before the wedding, allowing us an extra $1500 for our honeymoon. Honey, we abandoned that lease and Mac, bold as brass, moved in, a month before we married. Gasp! I'm such a rebel!

My father was appalled. Apoplectic. But I had every assurance of being "an honest woman" in a month's time, a massive Southern nuptial to-do was in the works, I had a ring on my finger - all of which was important to me - so I felt that a little fudging was acceptable. And you know what? It was. My daddy was the only one who even noticed, and Mac and I are happy to this day.

In short - my two cents? Live together if you know what you want and you think it might be serious. Don't live together if there is any inkling that your long-term wishes and the wishes of your "roomie-in-love" are going to come into conflict, or if you're not willing to look pragmatically at why your prospective live-in might be so eager to cohabitate. If you have kids outside of wedlock, take steps to protect them legally and save yourself a paternity battle, or the heartbreak of watching your partner take them away from you.

Morally? It's none of my bidness what y'all do. But I will tell you this - if Mac were to die tonight, I'd never marry again. I might would live with a man - for the companionship and because a widder lady can even tell her apoplectic daddy to fuck off with impunity - but I'd never choose to share this state with anyone but Mac. I love him and will never leave, but being married is a shitload of work, work I don't think my selfish ass would be willing to do again, or for anybody but Mac. Living together is much, much easier.

Aw, Crap.

What? I'm losing a whole hour tonight? Well, shit. It's that got-damned Daylight Savings Time again, that time of the year in which we make obeisance to an obsolete, antiquated, artificial, irritating, and quality-of-life-denting system designed to boost domestic production during a war that ended almost ninety years ago. Dammit.

I don't enjoy Spring Forward. I've also noticed that children, especially young ones, are no great respecters of the time change. My youngest one is going to get up at 6:30, whether the clock says it's 6:30 or 5:30 or 10:59. Likewise, he won't go to sleep unless it's dark outside, regardless of what "time" it is. It'll be a month before he adjusts - and my daughter is almost as bad. Mommy's day? Effectively lengthened, since they get up earlier and stay up later. Don't get me wrong - I love my spawn to pieces - I just don't appreciate the reduction in sleep and quiet, adult "evening time".

Bitch, bitch, bitch.

Padre

Despite my filthy, sinner's soul, I still find myself grieving for the Pope's passage. I'm not a Catholic, and I found myself in stark disagreement with many of the official stances adopted by the Papacy. Still, I respected the man for sticking to what he believed were the tenets of his faith, regardless of the many calls for him to "modernize" his "viewpoint". Religion, I've found, doesn't modernize well. You either subscribe or you don't - all this picking and choosing and piece-meal doctrine may feel good to modern Western man, but it sure ain't what the church ought to be preachin'. Anyone who says otherwise has missed the point entirely.

Leave religion and dogma out, and you still have one hell of a man. Fought the Nazis in his youth. Passed messages of hope through men of the cloth, during dark times like the martial law years in Poland. Even George W. Bush said he felt humbled in the presence of Pope John Paul II, and listened seriously to his counsel.

So, yeah...I misted up a few times when his death was made official. I hope that the next man elected to lead the approximately one billion Catholics on the planet - a sixth of the population - is half the man that the old Pole was. I imagine the man that was Karol is bathed in glory right about now, wholly a part of the Lord he followed while on this earth, the damaged husk of his body stripped away, engaged in that happiest of reunions.

Pussy Armada

Is my pussy a weapon? Well, I suppose the answer to that question depends on who you ask; query the betighted broad I took out with my patented "Flying Twat Smash" maneuver during my previous career as a professional jello-wrestler, and she'd likely tell you to stay the hell away from my pussy at all costs. If you consider menstrual craziness a subset of the general pussy jurisdiction, then back last fall - when I had my four-month-long Period of the Ages - my Tunnel of Love was a fucking WMD. I was a hormonal nutcase, and was the first one to admit it.

I have also often employed my pussy as a smuggler's device, though I hardly think that this use of the organ can be qualified as weaponization. Back in the days when I traveled extensively for bidness, before the horrors of September 11th, you would never find me on a domestic flight without a Pussy-Pak, a plastic-wrapped "leaf" of "tobacco" and some papers. What? I liked to smoke, and often found it difficult, in my business capacity, to find the time to procure the "brand" of "tobacco" I liked while on location. Also, I have been known to secrete other "substances" there from time to time, like in my early twenties, when fleeing a raided party on foot, hoping that's the last place "they'd" look for the, erm "baby powder". Ahem.

While I shy away from pussy-blogging specifically, and in general all sexual subjects in which a light sort of self-deprecativeness is impossible - I don't want to appear coarse - I will say that, to my knowledge, the only thing I've ever threatened to withhold the pussy over is immediate chocolate gratification. Like, "Honey, if you plan to get laid tonight, would you stop on the way home and bring me a Hershey bar? Thanks, dear." Oh, hell yes, I admit it - if that flappy piece of meat between my thighs can procure me some chocolate in a time of need, I will use it, and fuck you for even thinking I shouldn't.

But - jewelry? Vacations, dinners out, flowers, marriages, the lot? No. These are mostly things that I bestow freely on the people that I love whenever I am able, whether they are fucking me or not, and so I expect the same. If Mister MacFarland, my only sexual partner, shows up on my birthday without a present, I'm going to expect a damn good makeup present at some later date, and will certainly fuck him that night if he asks, regardless of whether he came up with the goods or not. The two things - pussy and goods/services - simply are not fungible, not in our marriage, anyway. Hell - I had a lot more money before I married his broke ass and started spitting out his babies. If I really wanted jewelry and cars and such, I should have stayed single and childless and bought them my damn self.

And, for the record, when I was single and childless and dating single men, I can honestly state that I never withheld sex out of some bait-dangling plan, some pubic carrot-and-stick game. Sometimes, yes, I'd fuck a guy right off the bat, if I felt like it. Sometimes I knew right away that I wasn't interested, and never gave the guy any ideas to the contrary. Sometimes I thought I wasn't interested at first, but then came to be incredibly attracted to a person I had become friends with, and then, after suitable notification, the fucking would commence...but I never had a hard and fast rule about when it was right, or when it wasn't. Every situation is different. There is no magic number of days that must elapse before the event takes place, no magic dollar amount that entitles a date to a piece of ass. This is not a contest. It just depends.

The proof of this pudding I'm spouting? I fucked Mister MacFarland on the first date. I had no intention of it happening - it was just a first date, and I didn't know him that well - I hadn't even shaved my legs - but it just happened. It was a love at first sight kind of thing. I'd been celibate and off the dating market for a year or so beforehand, we met, we went out, and we just...leapt on each other. We were married almost exactly a year from the night of our first encounter. If that makes me a whore, so be it - I'm a whore with a happy and fulfilling marriage. If any of it makes me coy with regard to the power of my pussy, then so be that shit, too. It is what it is - take it or leave it - but it works for me.

All this is not to say that I don't use my tits as a weapon. Oh yes...children....(as Eric would say)...I have been known to fling those rock-solid mammaries around like nunchuku; eye-poking, back-stabbing, black-eye bestowing behemoths they are - and that's only when I'm jogging. Yes, my boobs are weaponry, my own silk-and-lace clad arsenal. When I was nursing, I used to chase Mister MacFarland around the house, trying like hell to "paintball" his slack-ass with my leche de madre. I will gladly flash cleavage to get out of a speeding ticket, too, and if I thought it would get me discounts while shopping I'd fucking go topless. Look - I have to cart these monsters around, I have to suffer the back pain, the posture issues - and I'm not a big woman. I'm just generously endowed. If I gotta pay the price for 'em in physical comfort, you can bet your last bottom dollar that I'm going to get whatever use out of 'em - within the confines of a marriage, that is - that I can derive. I defy you to give me one good reason why I shouldn't. After all, every man I know proclaims in public that "he don't like big old huge titties", yet seems to have an Achilles Heel for them in private. Unless you're all a bunch of fucking liars, they shouldn't give me an edge.

Also, let this screed not be taken as a statement that I have not seen pussy used as a weapon. Oh, yes, Intrepids (as Velociman would say). I have seen a big old nasty stripper gal do things with her genitalia that would make nuke-sniffers like Kim Jong-Il sit up and take notice. I have also known dirty sluts whose VD trail might classify them as a biohazard, those Typhoid Marys - or Herpes Helens - as the case may be. I have seen evil bitches married to men who were truly in love with them twist the pussy like a knife, just as I have seen the phallus used in much the same manner. I know what Acidman is talking about - I've seen it done - but I think that there are more women out there who just want to be loved, who use the pussy to get a simulation of that feeling, than use it for malicious purposes. And you know what? More power to those ladies in the former category. If the men in their lives are such rampant assholes as to withhold love and intimacy, then let them withhold the pussy until these men at least learn to convincingly act like they give a shit about them.

Anyway. I'm going to stop now, but I could go on and on. I shouldn't have even chimed in - I feel certain that none of the Divas want another woman, especially me, treading on what is their domain - but I couldn't help it.

Pussies? Weapons? For Queenie, a target-rich environment.

Dirty Bird

Yes, I am still up. I would attribute my wakefulness to my late-morning nap, mentioned below, but I am actually sleepy. Very sleepy. I cooked a smashing dinner tonight, if I do say so myself, had a glass of wine or two...and my stomach has been urging me bedward since about nine o'clock. No, it wasn't the nap - it's that fucking bird.

Don't ask me what kind of bird it is - I am a retard in matters ornithological. Also, the bird only starts with his bullshit when the sun goes down, so I don't know what he looks like, either. When the rain finally stops, though, I'm taking a pellet gun after that fucker. I'll find out what he got-damn looks like...through a sight.

TWEET. A monotone, a squeaky wheel. TWEET. A door that needs oiling, a car that needs brakes. TWEET. TWEET. TWEET. TWEET. TWEET. A dying dryer, a sharp-tined fork on rough stoneware. TWEET, MUTHAFUCKAS!!!!!!

He's somewhere in the backyard, that shitass bird - I do know that much. You can, however, hear that winged rat from any point in the house. In the shower. In an electrical storm. Over the dishwasher, which is roughly equivalent to a Boeing 767 in takeoff mode. Laying in bed with a pillow over one ear and the other pressed to the mattress. It's driving me crazy.

Fucking birds, man...

TWEET.